


The More Things Change (Yeah, You Know the Rest)

by thehighwaywoman



Series: Spectacles 'Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Future Fic, Glasses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehighwaywoman/pseuds/thehighwaywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which are involved spatulas, poltergeists, and sex. Not all at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The More Things Change (Yeah, You Know the Rest)

**Author's Note:**

> Unashamedly silly, schmoopy and fluffy; a dash of adult 'cestiness. 
> 
> Originally posted on LiveJournal, October 2007.

Here's the thing: clichés are clichés for a reason. They've been repeated time out of mind until they're hoary with old age and more or less meaningless, but they still apply. Right now, the one to keep in mind is this: _the more things change, the more they stay the same._

It's a pretty big rule of thumb for the Winchesters.

For example, no matter how many paranormal uglies they smack down, there's always more waiting right around the corner. 

For another, they don't have to go looking for trouble (although they still do); trouble comes to them. 

For a third, Sam and Dean have been tied together with a dozen or more cords from the moment forty-odd years before when Dean took Sam from their father's arms and ran from the fire engulfing the only home he'd ever known (before now). Some of the bonds between them are society-approved. Most aren't. It doesn't change the baseline fact: Sam is Dean's, and Dean is Sam's. Quid pro quo, done.

To prove the cliché, here's an undeniable example of how things stay the same. When Dean's recovering from the broken ankle he got chasing the possessed sheep, he's irritable, bored, antsy and causes more trouble for Sam than a temperamental chupacabra.

Sam does the best he can. He gets it, he really does, how enforced inactivity drives Dean up the wall. There's no telling what Dean's nature might have been if he hadn't started hunting so early; as it stands, unless he's blue or scared (though he'll never let anyone know, not even Sam) he's trained to be on the move. To take the active, aggressive role. It's hard-wired in.

And Sam understands. He tries to be patient.

He still sometimes wants to throttle Dean. Who wouldn't?

It's a late spring Saturday morning, and the neighborhood they've set up home base in is quiet (they're still calling it "temporary" after three full years, even though they know it's not). Kids can be worrisome with their lazzez-faire habit of treating the street like an extension of their yards; Sam always worries that they'll hit one by accident. More so when Dean's driving. He needs glasses, but just try and tell _him_ that.

_What's wrong with glasses?_ Sam puzzles, glancing in the Impala's rearview mirror when he's stopped at an intersection. He likes the way he looks in his silver-rimmed spectacles, intelligent and mature. Dean loves the way Sam looks in his glasses. 

No cars are coming through the intersection, so Sam drives on. He's only two blocks from the matchbox-sized "mill house" they live in, a cookie-cutter model shaped exactly like every other house on their street. Interesting history to those. Built in the early 1900's as housing for mill workers and built to the exact same floor plan. Over the years, though, they've all acquired various degrees of individuality. 

Theirs, he notes as always as he eases into the cement-poured ten-foot "driveway" by the house, shouts "Dean was here". Luckily, no one has yet comprehended the meaning of the three-foot-square Devil's Trap picked out in ornamental stones or noticed the heavy lines of salt carefully maintained around the perimeter, and they have no idea that the fountaining birdbath is full of holy water.

See? The more things change, the more they stay the same.

He's uneasy about having left Dean asleep when he ducked out earlier that morning. His brother sleeps lightly these days, but he does sleep _late_ when he can. Sam can't shake the habit of waking well before dawn. Normally, he'll use the time to go for a run or take his palmtop and a cup of hot Chai to their front steps and search for possible cases out of pure habit.

This morning, when he opened the refrigerator to get the creamer, the comparative emptiness concerned him. Half an onion, a jar of mayonnaise, eggs, and a foil-wrapped something-or-another. Milk. No orange juice, no vegetables, no fruit. They can do better now that they've got a place to stockpile food, and Sam determined to rectify the situation.

Hence, a foray out to the Farmer's Market to replenish provisions.

He's returned victorious, hauling his vast canvas duffel from the back seat, filled to capacity with apples, pears, cherries, broccoli, carrots, spinach, rye bread, wheat berry bread, cinnamon raisin bread, and squashy packages of truly fresh meat, both beef and chicken. (There are two pouches of candy, one maple sugar and one horehound, and a bag of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies, and a pint of ice cream in the bottom. For Dean.) 

Dean's not in sight, and Sam hopes he's still asleep. His primary goal is to get the provender from Impala to house and then into the refrigerator before Dean wakes.

As a plan, it works. In practice, not so much.

The problem starts with an approaching projectile, which Sam thinks at first is some sort of robin or wren. The flying object approaches slowly enough for him to see that it’s a barbeque spatula. Moving slowly. On a straight course.

He stares at the lazily traveling utensil as it approaches his head, the wheels in his mind already clicking and whirring. Poltergeist? Air elemental? The spirit of an Iron Chef who died on a grill?

The spatula waggles in the air in a "so-so" movement, then darts forward to slap Sam fast on both cheeks.

"Son of a bitch!" Sam exclaims, startled. 

The spatula darts off at hummingbird speed, trailing high-pitched giggles in its wake.

Dean yanks open their front door and leans out, stubbled and tousle-headed and red-eyed, the pale gray threads in his hair glowing snowy-pale in the morning sunlight. "Sam?" He looks around almost wildly. "Sam, is that you?"

"Yeah." Sam waves at his brother, studying him. Damn. The mess he's made of his hair isn't from sleep, he can tell. It's the result of shoving his hands through it time and time again while trying not to panic over Sam leaving without warning; the red eyes aren't from too little rest, but from worry. Ever since the possession -- and that's almost twenty years ago, now -- Dean flips if he wakes up alone when he didn't go to sleep that way. 

Of course, Dean's never _said_ as much. He doesn't have to. And on this, at least, Sam doesn't push him. Anymore.

Dean nods, rubbing the bristle on his cheeks. "Okay. Good." He changes the subject right away. "Did you bring me anything?"

"Yeah," Sam says, casting uncertain glances in the direction in which the spatula disappeared. Should he tell Dean? Probably not. He'd jump on even the smallest case and he _does_ need to take it easy; his foot's still in a cast. A break can't heal if it's not given the chance.

Better that he should take care of this one himself, Sam decides. He'll get Dean settled and then come up with some excuse to head out again. And he'll deal with the… evil spatula… before Dean's any the wiser.

He's no sooner fixed the plan in his mind than the barbeque utensil zips merrily back, twirls windmill-like before his eyes, and zips around to smack him on the back of the head.

Sam hisses and makes a grab for the evil thing. Dean perks up. A grin brightens his whole face, as eager and excited as the first time he faced a werewolf. "Whoa! Did you see that?"

The spatula dances away, its giggling shriller and more pronounced. Sam rubs his head and replies, proud of his lack of vocal scorn, "Yeah, kind of hard to miss."

"Did it hurt you?"

"I'll live." Sam examines his hand and finds no smears of blood. Just stings like a mother, that's all. He mentally shrugs his shoulders and figures that what's done is done. Maybe he can still argue Dean into letting him handle the disposal on his own. It should help if he involves his brother in the battle plans. "So, what do you think? Poltergeist?"

"Gotta be." Dean's bouncing on his good foot. " _Awesome._ Can you believe that? A spatula." He stops, the penny dropping at last. "Hey, wait a minute. _My grill gear!_ "

"I don't think that one's yours anymore," Sam opines, not without sympathy.

"My grill. My. Grill. That son of a bitch is mine to slaughter," Dean vows, murder in his eyes.

Okay, maybe he won't be able to talk Dean down from hunting this one. He's still going to try. "Mind if I put the food away first?" Sam hitches the canvas bag more firmly over his shoulder. "This stuff cost a fortune."

Ah-ha. That was the right note to hit. Now that they don't live regularly off pool hustling (kind of hard to do when they recognize you as a local) and they haven't run a credit card scam in years (too risky when you're settled), money can get tight from time to time. 

"Yeah, sure." Dean scowls in the direction of the spatula's disappearance. "So, what did you bring me?"

* * *

Dean steals Sam's bag the second Sam puts it down on the cheap pine table in their kitchen, hefting the considerable weight and grunting his approval. He digs in like a kid on Christmas morning. All things considered, he's allowed. Sam stands semi-back and lets Dean rummage, rescuing each plastic bag and jar and box as Dean discards them for the next comestible to catch his eye.

Right now, he's griping over what he calls an over-the-top amount of health food. When he hits the third home-canned Mason jar of free-range chicken soup with organic vegetables, he waves it in front of Sam not unlike the poltergeist with its abducted spatula. "Care to explain all this?"

Sam attempts casual indifference. "What? I like soup. I thought you did too."

"Yeah, but not a twenty-four-seven diet of the stuff." Dean makes a face. "And the rest of this stuff? Sam, would it kill you to ingest something that's not…" He waves vaguely. "Politically correct?"

Sam can't help laughing. "Calm down, man. I'm just doing my part to keep us from needing triple bypasses before we're sixty."

"Hey!" Dean points. "You watch your mouth. I'm in _perfect_ condition, and cheeseburgers haven't hurt me yet."

"'Yet' being the key word there, Dean." 

"'Yet' being all you need, Sam." Dean drums his nails on the chicken soup lid. "Soup. Juice. Weird-ass bread. Oatmeal."

Sam fidgets, knowing what Dean's getting at. "They're basic staples."

"They're sick-person food, Sam." Ah, the heart of the objection. Sam knew this was coming. "It's a broken foot. A simple broken foot. I'm not bed-ridden and I sure as hell don't need invalid rations."

"I'm not saying you do." There's no way to say this without sounding like a sap, and when it comes to such matters the brothers Winchester generally don't try. Sam would have hugged a woman; he might have rumpled up a kid's hair; with Dean, he pushes him lightly. "Humor me." 

Dean gets it then; Sam's need to watch out for him, no matter how incorrectly Dean sees him as going about the task. He might not like it -- he's the one who takes care of Sam, not the other way around -- but he does comprehend. Irritation wars briefly with a flicker of softer emotions on his strong face until he decides on and feigns indifference. "Fine, whatever."

He pops Sam on the bicep and Sam understands that means they're okay. 

"Look in the bottom of the bag," Sam directs, making a peace offering. "It's not all stuff I'd have to force-feed you."

"Yeah?" Dean brightens some. He tosses his way through bags of rice and beans and cereal, on the hunt. "Oh, dude. You bought ice cream." He checks the frosty label. "Actual ice cream with fat and sugar and everything. And nuts! And marshmallows."

He plants his palm smack on Sam's forehead. Sam steps away. "What the hell?"

"You bought Rocky Road. I'm checking to see if you have a fever." Dean smirks at him, then looks back down in the bag. His jaw drops. "Are these cookies?"

"They're not that big a deal."

"Uh-huh. _Christo_."

"Not funny, Dean."

"I don't know. I thought it was worth a chuckle." Dean's relief at Sam's not reacting to "Christo" would only be apparent to Sam himself; an outsider wouldn't have picked up on the subtle cues. He tears open the bag and grabs a handful of cookies. When he pops one in his mouth, he moans. "Oh my God, they're still _warm_."

"Enjoy." Sam would like to kiss him right then. He decides not to. The cookies are good enough to get the message across and long-time sexual relationship or not, Dean still doesn't do the huggy-kissy routine with grace.

So when Dean tacklehugs him, head-butting Sam's shoulder, it takes him almost completely by surprise. It's over before Sam can react or think to return the rough embrace, but he thinks his shoulder will probably tingle for hours with the sense memory.

Dean pulls back, grinning like a kid, lit up with sugar-inspired glee. A fierce urge seizes Sam by the gut. He fights for a moment, but only a moment, then figures ah, what the hell? and grabs Dean by the waist to haul him in for a kiss. A good, hard crush of lips on lips, bulling his way in and not taking no for an answer. He nips Dean's lip sharply between his teeth and is smugly satisfied when Dean groans and grabs onto his waist for dear life.

"I'm still not eating the chicken soup," Dean mumbles while Sam's tugging his brother's arms up one at a time and pulling the sleep-warm T-shirt over his head. "And the ice cream's all mine."

Sam saves his breath for more important things, like sucking up welts and ownership marks over all the newly-bared skin he can reach. 

When he takes off his glasses and plunks them on Dean's nose, Dean lets him. Now that's Winchester love.

He's got his hand down the front of Dean's sweatpants, pushing them down to Dean's ankles, making him hiss and scratch, forgetting broken bones and cookies and poltergeists, and not thinking about anything but making Dean fall apart and following him over.

"God, _yeah,_ " Dean urges when Sam starts to work him good and hard, Sam's glasses sliding down Dean's nose when he arches his neck and spits like a wildcat. " _Fuck_ , Sam, you're kinky. Do that again!"

But before Sam can give him what he wants, a colander pops up from the kitchen counter behind them and clobbers Dean on his bare ass.

Sam thinks Dean's lucky it wasn't a cheese grater. He thinks he himself is lucky that Dean merely grabs the salt shaker off the table and flings it in the general direction of the poltergeist, then finishes what he and Sam started.

The poltergeist doesn't exactly leave and isn't what you'd call an appreciative audience, and Sam has the grapefruit-spoon-shaped bruises to prove it later. 

Dean denies loudly that he ever fell prey to a kiss of gratitude over the new spatula and thick Angus steaks Sam bought to celebrate the newly sanctified grill, but that's another story.


End file.
